


Sparrow

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Voronwë marvels at Tuor on the road, but Tuor is the lucky one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They must rest anyway, and may as well do it by the spring, where Voronwë is light like the stars and happy—he slips into the water with a grace Tuor could never capture. The sky is growing dark, but there’s enough of a glow off the pale surface to appreciate all the earth-coloured curves of Voronwë’s supple skin. He wades in place and runs long fingers through his hair, while Tuor watches from a bed of grass and dares not to look away.

Voronwë smiles at him like it’s no trouble. They’ve seen one another bare enough on this journey, and Voronwë’s gaze has lingered just as much on the times when Tuor strips clean of all his clothes. He doesn’t quite understand why—he isn’t nearly so beautiful. He doesn’t have Voronwë’s elegance, Voronwë’s twinkling eyes or the plush, rose pout of his lips. Voronwë lets the water drizzle along his slender shoulders and down the flat arc of his chest, lets his dark hair slick across his cheeks and back. He wrings it out when he’s finished brushing it through and begins to braid it again, thick and endearingly messy, natural and _raw_. It’s the sort of braid that even Tuor could manage, if he ever spoke up to offer. Instead, he watches Voronwë work, letting his own tired muscles rest on the hard ground. There’s been no great interruption, but the journey’s still strenuous. 

Voronwë makes it easier. Voronwë offers a pleasant reprieve amidst the skulking and hurrying and the fear of pursuit. Voronwë hums to himself as he drifts beneath the surface like a swan, equally as fair.

But he leaves the water before he has to, when the sun hasn’t yet _quite_ disappeared, and Tuor would be content to watch a while longer. This view is still pleasant—Voronwë pulling onto the grass and shaking stray droplets off his skin. He wanders, bare of everything, to the furs by Tuor’s side. He lifts the thickest one, skinned from a warg that Tuor himself slew, and wraps it close around him. Even such a foul pelt looks good on him. If Tuor had anything of value—necklaces of gold, silver bands or pearl earrings—he’d drench Voronwë in them. But he has only the tools that can fit in his bag and the few rags they can carry. Voronwë stretches out beside him in the grass, dressed only in that fur, and hooks one thigh over Tuor’s leg. 

They won’t move again tonight. The trees offer the best protection they can hope for in these lands. Tuor thinks, at first, that Voronwë means to sleep already, but then he feels the delicate pads of Voronwë’s fingertips brushing back behind his ear.

Voronwë traces the shell top to bottom twice, flicks away a few blond strands, and squirms closer to ghost his hot breath over Tuor’s lobe. When Voronwë’s tongue flickers out to lap at it, Tuor finally tilts his head away and chuckles, “What are you doing?”

Voronwë follows, rising up to nip at the edge. His teeth are blunt and gentle, but he gives a little tug as though to put Tuor back in place. Tuor rolls his head straight again, and Voronwë coos and resumes licking at his ear. 

“They are still... strange... to me...” Voronwë explains after a moment, if that counts as any explanation. The spongy tip of his tongue tickles in certain places, but the heat of his breath counters the coolness of his saliva, and the proximity of Voronwë’s pliant body more than makes up for the oddity. Voronwë muses, like it’s anything of note, “So _round_...”

Tuor never thought himself the odd one. He has to shift to worm a hand up between them, and he catches Voronwë by the chin, holding him firm and steady, the licking kept temporarily at bay. That way, Tuor can turn to study Voronwë properly, and tilt his face accordingly, first right and then left, the pointed tips of his ears peaking out of his still-damp hair on either end. His brown flesh looks velvet-soft against the dark mats of his thick hair. Tuor has to pull him all the closer to lean up and bite at the exotic peaks—which, he supposes, are indeed enchanting. 

But the same can be said of most of Voronwë. Perhaps of most elves. When Tuor falls back to the ground, melting into leisure again, Voronwë grins and murmurs, “If I had to be snatched from the sea to guide any man, I am glad it was for you.”

“Because of my ears?” Tuor teases. He’s heartened by the rich laugh that Voronwë gives him.

“Because you are so very handsome.” Voronwë bends down as soon as he’s said it, and Tuor’s already opening, ready for the kiss that comes. 

Voronwë tastes like winterberries, and his tongue is slick and easy, tracing Tuor’s in a heartbeat and coaxing the kiss far deeper. To start with Voronwë is always to fall into the depths of it. Perhaps there will come a time when Tuor will have to learn shields or to resist this, when the journey’s over and there are greater deeds to be done, but for now, lost in the wilderness, nothing stops him from spiraling forward. He turns his body to Voronwë’s and tugs at the fur, pulling it over both of them like a blanket. He warns between kisses, “Lie close—the night comes, and the cold will come with it.”

“Will Ulmo’s great herald warm me?” Voronwë asks, though Tuor’s done so every night without fail. It didn’t begin _like this_ , but they always lay near to one another, ready for what might come. Then hands began to wander, and now Tuor couldn’t part them if he wanted to. The spring nearby gives him some comfort. He’s allowed this, he thinks—if Ulmo did not wish him the joy of another’s touch, his guide wouldn’t be so beautiful. 

He opens his own breeches, but Voronwë takes the answer for what it is and plucks at the ties of his tunic. The nudity is hardly necessary, but Voronwë seems to take enjoyment in running his palms across Tuor’s broader chest. His hard life, at least, has left him chiseled and ready for whatever battles come. Voronwë traces each firm line of Tuor’s muscled stomach, down into the golden curls that disappear into his breeches, and then Tuor pulls his own hands away to give Voronwë room. He pulls Voronwë closer at the same time, one arm around Voronwë’s midsection and the other sliding between his ample thighs. His cock’s already half-hard against his stomach, and Tuor is much the same. Watching Voronwë bathe always starts him. But he likes to leave Voronwë’s hands to finish. Voronwë wraps tight around his length and purrs over his hiss, “I am even glad for this—for how rough you are.”

“Me?” Tuor chuckles, though his grip does loosen, his work-calloused knuckles weighing more carefully along Voronwë’s warm flesh. “You are the one to strip so readily before an audience...”

“In the wild,” Voronwë sighs, like that makes any difference. “And the one I strip for already knows the ease of my touch.” Sure enough, his hands are feather-soft around Tuor’s hardened cock. Voronwë strokes him like a dance, in fluid, luxurious twists and patient falls, while Tuor pumps with laboured breath. Voronwë makes his pulse quicken, his senses spike. The heat’s trapped beneath the fur, but Voronwë’s bare legs are still tantalizing outside it, cold but needy as they are. Tuor will fetch another fur after this, wrap Voronwë properly, but not now—now _this_ internal fire will have to be enough. Voronwë nudges his face closer, hitting Tuor’s nose with his, so close that they can’t even look properly into one another’s eyes. It does make it easier to kiss. Tuor steals one, then two, then surges his mouth against Voronwë’s while his hand speeds up with fervor. Voronwë strokes him just the same.

Their cocks brush. Voronwë is the one to do it, Tuor’s sure, maneuvering them properly so their leaking heads can slide along one another, though Tuor has no dexterity like this. He just fills himself with the rush of it, lets himself be overwhelmed, greedily devours what he can of Voronwë’s lips and the little pants and moans that spill so prettily out the sides. Voronwë’s body rocks slowly while Tuor starts to hump Voronwë’s hand. The fur rustles, pre-cum and spring water making slick squelching sounds the harder they pump. Voronwë kiss is intoxicating. 

Tuor would suffer this journey a thousand times for this one pleasure. He builds in a grateful rise, his balls clenching in anticipation and all the heat bubbling to the surface. Then he blanks out in a rush of _greatness_ , smashing Voronwë forward to stifle his own roar. He comes all over Voronwë’s hand and both their stomachs and gets a sick satisfaction out of picturing the pearly white strands draped across Voronwë’s darker skin. 

Voronwë ruts forward while Tuor’s still spinning, spilling shortly after. Tuor’s still lost in his own fun, but he feels through the dizziness the tensing and release of Voronwë’s cock. He pumps out more of the warm seed that spurts out onto his fingers. By the time his hips finally still, Voronwë’s panting hard against him.

Tuor wipes his hand lazily on the grass between them, but Voronwë lifts his to lick. Tuor’s seed disappears inside his siren mouth, long fingers sliding out clean and glistening. Voronwë licks his lips afterwards like he’s been given a fitting meal, and then he gives Tuor another kiss. The taste is a little different but no less engaging. 

When enough air has returned to Tuor’s lungs, he sighs, “We should have done that before you bathed.”

“But you would only grow hard again after,” Voronwë notes, and he isn’t wrong. His smile mirrors Tuor’s, and he suggests, “Perhaps we may bathe again tomorrow, before we set out again.” But at that rate, they’ll never get anywhere.

Tuor muses, “You should have been born a Maia of the water.”

Voronwë’s sea-grey eyes grow charmingly wide, and he asks in rapt fascination, “Are Maiar _born_?”

Tuor chuckles and is flattered that Voronwë thinks he would know. He’s given only Ulmo words and not sight far beyond that. Voronwë seems to understand and nods to himself, settling back while Tuor moves to cover him in more furs.

Then they lie together and share a few more kisses while Tilion wanders into the sky.


End file.
